


how long is one side of a mobius strip?

by sakuriis



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas market, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, One Shot, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, atsumu likes giving gifts, i'm not sorry at all, msby 4 mentioned in passing, sakusa is cold let him go inside please, surprisingly no beach bunny lyrics here!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27270253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakuriis/pseuds/sakuriis
Summary: The name of the shape that never ends, a fitting term to describe the way Sakusa Kiyoomi loves him.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 5
Kudos: 45





	how long is one side of a mobius strip?

**Author's Note:**

> yes, i am aware it is november and barely christmas season everywhere but arts & crafts stores, but i've been itching to post for over 40 days!
> 
> this was mainly written on two consecutive all nighters in mid-august but i waited to post this until i could justify it was holiday season! anyways this is that one sappy christmas fic where sakuatsu do stereotypical christmas things and love each other with a capital L!

if someone had told sakusa kiyoomi that he would be dragged out to a christmas market on one of the coldest days on record three years ago, he would have certainly turned on his heel and ignored them. however, here he is, wearing four layers of sweaters, gloves, earmuffs and boots and _still_ cold. 

atsumu keeps a tight grip on kiyoomi’s right hand, also gloved, as they skirt around crowds and stop every so often to look at the booths. it wasn’t kiyoomi’s idea, clearly, to visit a christmas market the day before the holiday when the crowds and his anxiety are both at their peaks, but atsumu had carried on and fussed and used that awful, whiny tone of voice until he got his way. 

so now they’re here, looking at a set of paintings.

“which one do you think bokkun would like?” the blond is slightly hunched over, face close to the canvas as he inspects the details of each brush stroke. giving gifts is an art form to him, spending hours, days and sometimes weeks trying to pick out the perfect present. 

kiyoomi tries not to stress himself out with those types of things. his family was never really big on the holidays like the miyas obviously were, so his gift-giving expertise is on the poor side. he sighs, “bokuto-san likes anything and everything.” kiyoomi shifts his grip on the large bag in his left hand, half wishing he could stuff his hand in his pocket to see if he can still feel warmth and half knowing that would require letting go of atsumu’s hand. “plus, what is it with you and paint?”

as far as kiyoomi knows, miya atsumu is not an artist. obviously, that doesn’t stop him from buying everything in the entire market that has to offer with the words ‘hand painted’ in the title. in the bag kiyoomi carries, his boyfriend has already purchased hand-painted china teacups (for suna), knives with painted hilts (for osamu, who probably already owns multiple lifetimes’ worth of knives), painted china plates (for them, although kiyoomi will never use them out of fear of shattering or chipping the gold rims) and painted charms. there’s more items in the bag atsumu set on the ground while he scrutinizes a detailed painting of a bird.

“nothing!” atsumu pouts and looks over his shoulder, directly at his boyfriend. “shouldn’t you be happy that we’re supporting local artists?”

“atsumu, the china woman knows you by name,” kiyoomi responds, using the same tone one would use to talk to a kindergartener. 

“so?”

“so? i’m freezing to death, pick a damn painting.” he huffs, and subsequently goes back to trying to keep his teeth from clicking together. kiyoomi has no idea how atsumu is still giggling and smiling and prancing across the cobblestone path, given how sensitive his fingers are to every other form of stimulus. it is, quite literally, negative six degrees celsius.

“we’ll take this one,” atsumu calls, and as a skinny, petite woman dodges the rest of the paintings propped on their easels to reach the front, kiyoomi glances sideways at the canvas.

“why the owl?” kiyoomi murmurs to himself, and the white surgical mask muffles it so much that it’s likely that he won’t get a response.

but atsumu is atsumu, the setter who adjusts his tosses to every single twitch of his spikers’ shoulders and who lives with sakusa kiyoomi, the man who mutters twice as much as he speaks out loud. he straightens up, sighing softly, and turns the grip on kiyoomi’s right hand from a phantom touch to real contact, or as close as you can get through the thick wool gloves. at this point in their relationship, he knows every inch of atsumu’s body mapped out in his mind, and their fingers intertwine as atsumu turns to face him.

the golden glow of the light from the booth contrasts with the darkening sky and casts a bright glow onto atsumu’s face, even if half of it is covered by a mask. kiyoomi was blessed with more height than him, and on some days, he swears that he was built like thatjust so he can look down on his boyfriend’s face. atsumu’s normally brown irises have new dimensions in this specific lighting, like chocolate diamonds. “it was their high school mascot, right? bokkun and akaashi-kun?”

_“_ oh.” _of course. how could he have forgotten?_ fukurodani and itachiyama often played each other in practice matches and major tournaments, fighting for the top spot in the tokyo qualifiers as the points went into the thirties, forties and once, even the fifties. kiyoomi saw the white haired spiker and the dark haired setter so often that even before he played on the same team as bokuto koutarou, he knew the sharp look in his eyes that preceded a sharp cut shot by milliseconds.

miya atsumu, thoughtful. kiyoomi really shouldn’t be surprised, knowing that atsumu’s powers of observation are incredible on the court, especially when he’s trying to figure out the cues of the opposing setter. atsumu uses it on kiyoomi, too: the first time atsumu went out with him and wore an identical surgical mask, the dark haired spiker didn’t function very well. his brain lagged so hard that he ended up just nodding uselessly while atsumu talked and talked. 

to atsumu, it’s probably second nature; but to the taller man, oddly enough, excellent memory to make up for kiyoomi’s forgetfulness is incredibly attractive.

a dopey smile is probably spreading under the atsumu’s mask and the blond even giggles lightly, and kiyoomi curses that he can’t see it. it’s his favorite expression on atsumu: smiling or laughing, his eyes glittering when he looks at something that he loves. 

kiyoomi wants to kiss the living daylights out of him, regardless of the facts that his hands are like ice and atsumu would squirm away to avoid his freezing touch. however, they’re standing in the middle of a christmas market full of conservative japanese grandmas, old women like the one they’re buying a painting from, who would probably not take two grown men making out in public very well.

so kiyoomi settles for a soft smile underneath the white fabric, squeezing atsumu’s hand a little tighter as they bow and thank the painter. atsumu clutches the bag, never letting go of kiyoomi’s hand, and pulls him further towards the center of the market.

christmas music plays in the distance, enhancing the mood, and kiyoomi finds in harder and harder to bite back shivers the longer that they walk hand in hand. atsumu points at a stall with the bag in his right hand, the one with the wrapped canvas inside of it, and says something kiyoomi can’t quite catch. oh, he wishes that he’d put on a fifth layer, or maybe had the miyas’ resistance to cold. 

who knows? maybe he’ll acquire it when he becomes miya kiyoomi, all-star spiker?

a shiver ripples through his whole body, his wrist twitching as kiyoomi tries to suppress it before it reaches atsumu. regardless of his efforts, atsumu’s powers of observation were always far beyond everyone else’s, and the blond stops abruptly and faces kiyoomi again.

“are you that cold? you should have told me, omi-kun,” atsumu fusses, pulling off one of his two scarves. it reminds kiyoomi of tokyo winters when he was younger, when his mother would layer warm clothing on, leaving him shuddering and speedwalking through the snow to get to school.

“i’m not,” kiyoomi tries, but squeezes his eyes tightly shut in a grimaces when a frosty gust of wind bites at his face on its way past. people walk by, sparing them a glance at most as atsumu scolds him about not communicating his feelings.

“you’re a terrible liar.” atsumu finishes wrapping the scarf in a position where it won’t fall off. “let’s go see the christmas tree then we can go home and bake cookies, okay?”

the idea of being inside, the heat on and baking cookies in their cozy kitchen sounds like heaven. kiyoomi nods, deciding that another half hour maximum in the cold is worth the reward of warm cookies and miya atsumu. they continue wandering towards the center of the market, where the large christmas tree is rumoured to be, and kiyoomi tucks his chin into the scarf that smells distinctly of vanilla and lavender detergent; the smell of home.

if there was a string tied to both of their pinkies, it would be a vibrant gold with trust and love; or maybe the red and green of christmas colors on atsumu’s half. maybe it would flow in the air in slow motion, like it’s submerged in water, linking them together for the rest of their lives; or maybe it would link them for eternity, appearing again when they’re both reborn, made perfectly for each other.

kiyoomi snaps out of his thoughts when something cold and wet meets the exposed skin of his forehead. he flinches so hard that his head snaps up, and- _oh._ “atsumu, look.”

“what?” he glances back at him, eyes reflecting the glow of the lights around them, then looks up also. white drifts down, easy to see because of the dark blue-grey of the sky. 

“kiyoomi! kiyoomi, it’s snowing!” atsumu reaches his hands to the sky like the child he is and jumps in place. kiyoomi sees the white flakes drift past him, but watching his boyfriend glow from happiness, cheeks rosy and bundled up against the cold is much more interesting. he whips around, the pale pieces of sleet caught on his eyelashes and all in his hair. “do you think we’ll have a white christmas? we rarely had them at home, omi-kun.”

the look on his face, use of his given name and the shiny, melting pieces of snow stuck to his face is too much for kiyoomi. he’s reeling internally, taking mental pictures and framing them with each blink. 

kiyoomi thanks whatever god lent his power to atsumu and molded him to be either brave or stupid enough to never call kiyoomi by his surname when he joined msby.

“yes, atsumu.” that is all there is to say.

they keep walking, atsumu’s face turned up to the sky as snow starts to cushion their steps and piles on the shoulders of their coats. by the time the huge christmas tree finally comes into view, kiyoomi is shivering and his teeth ache from constantly clicking together.

the advertisements weren’t wrong: the tree _is_ huge, at least thirty meters tall, maybe fifty at most. (as you can tell, kiyoomi was never good with measurements or math.) huge red ribbons with silver trim and bows decorate it, and the largest ornaments either of them have ever seen hang from the branches. white lights wrap around it, making it glow brightly against the sky, and a glass angel sits on the peak of the tree, serving as a tree topper.

“wow,” atsumu sighs, standing still and watching the snow fall. kiyoomi is inclined to agree; with christmas music playing, the lights twinkling and the presents they’re carrying, he’s beginning to understand why atsumu loves the holiday and season so much.

atsumu lets go of his hand, and the cold seeps into kiyoomi’s bones. everything is wrong, so he moves on instinct, grabbing the back of atsumu’s jacket, who stumbles backwards into him.

“jeez, i was just going to ask someone to take our picture,” atsumu huffs, mask just barely hanging on by a single loop around one of his ears. kiyoomi flushes bright red, processing what he just did, and atsumu flicks him on the forehead with the same smirk he wore the day they met. “dummy.”

kiyoomi suddenly finds his black boots very interesting.

atsumu, using his people pleasing smile, spends no less than three minutes looking for someone to ask before an old man takes up on his offer, and the blond shows him how to operate the phone camera before dragging kiyoomi with him to pose in front of the huge tree. they put their bags down, just long enough that the snow won’t damage them through the paper, and hold hands while their picture gets taken. 

when kiyoomi scrolls through them in the passenger seat of the car, he sends himself the one he likes the most. on the screen, they’re immortalized; the snow falls around them and both of their masks are off. atsumu is grinning so widely that his eyes are shut, and kiyoomi is looking at him, smiling softly.

he loves it so much that he makes the picture his lockscreen. he loves atsumu so much that he almost causes his boyfriend to swerve and crash when he kisses him right there in the car.

they make one more stop, arguing lightheartedly about which brand of cookie dough they should buy in the store, then head straight home, speeding out of excitement and because of how empty the highway is. as soon as he climbs their porch, the door unlocks and his breath no longer forms white clouds in the dark, kiyoomi peels the soaked black coat off of his body and sighs in relief. two more sweaters, his gloves, boots and a pair of socks come off immediately after. he helps atsumu pull his own boots off, places them in the downstairs laundry room to dry and throws all of the soaked clothes into the wash. kiyoomi yawns, fingers tingling from the newfound warmth surrounding him, then treads upstairs to take a hot shower. 

“don’t sit on the couch if you’re soaked, asshole,” kiyoomi calls down the stairs, knowing that atsumu is moving to do exactly that.

“ugh,” is the faint response that echoes up, and kiyoomi snickers from the master bedroom.

kiyoomi’s hot shower turns into something closer to a warm shower, because reaching a cold hand into the steamy running water that’s his normal temperature has him hissing like a cat. his dark hair is still damp when he comes back down the stairs, wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, and hears the water running in the guest bathroom. _observant but impatient_ , he thinks.

kiyoomi does little tasks while he waits for atsumu: turning the lights on their christmas tree, opening the curtains on the window so that the sun can shine through in the morning, bringing down those two sweaters that he said were ‘the ugliest thing he’d ever seen’ when the blond bought identical ones for the four of them that first christmas at the black jackals.

oh, that reminds him: he should probably check up on his old teammates. bokuto went back to play for a pro team in tokyo after he got married, and hinata went to italy with kageyama tobio to play in the italian league. kiyoomi sent them all christmas cards (hinata and kageyama’s cost an insane amount, courtesy of international express shipping.) he was never too fond of his high school teammates except for komori and iizuna, so he simply forgot all of their names shortly after graduation.

he’s pulling out different colored sprinkles and frosting from the grocery store bag when atsumu comes out from the guest bathroom in just a towel, suspiciously low on his hips. kiyoomi scowls and chucks a bundle of clothes at him with a _whump_ when it hits atsumu in the chest. the blond squawks indignantly, then goes to put the towel back and put the clothes on.

kiyoomi reads the instructions and taking the cookie dough out of the packaging when atsumu comes back and stands in the middle of the living room, like a sim waiting for directions. he’s wearing the ugly sweater and kiyoomi bites back his smirk at how stupid he looks in it, regardless of the fact that he probably looks the same as he does.

there were, after all, four sweaters. kiyoomi wonders if the others are wearing them too.

“omi-kun, do you want to watch the polar express?”

kiyoomi rifles through a drawer, looking for a rolling pin. “what the fuck is the polar express?”

“it’s this american movie that sho-chan watched with me--god, you swear so much, apparently the portuguese version is really popular in brazil. it’s _good_ , omi-kun, and it has japanese subtitles.” atsumu waves a dvd case that he must have pulled out of thin air, because kiyoomi’s never seen it in his life.

“post-cookies, get over here or you’re not getting any.” that sends atsumu scurrying for the kitchen, and kiyoomi bites back a laugh. _his boyfriend is so stupid._

kiyoomi ends up being the one to roll out the sugar cookie dough, because ‘he has bigger arms,’ in atsumu’s words. atsumu gets to decide what shapes they’re using, which spirals into bickering very, very quickly.

“let’s make a fifth star!” the blond exclaims.

“atsumu, we already have four stars, let’s make a third angel instead.”

“isn’t four an unlucky number?”

kiyoomi puts his hands on his hips. “i don’t think japanese superstitions apply to christmas cookies.”

“omi-kun, _everything_ applies to christmas cookies,” atsumu replies, mimicking his boyfriend’s tone and pose. kiyoomi frowns, then takes the opportunity to stab atsumu between the ribs with his fingers. while the blond cries out and drops the star cookie cutter, he pushes the angel down into the last flattened corner of dough.

“oh, you’re so evil,” atsumu whines once he’s recovered, rubbing his side. “whatever happened to soft kiyoomi? maybe i should freeze you more often…”

“maybe i should put nair in your conditioner,” kiyoomi responds, carefully transferring the cookies onto the tray. 

atsumu, predictably, screeches a response that kiyoomi automatically. whoever lives in the houses next to them must be sick and tired of the constant screaming.

after the cookies are baking comfortably in the oven and the timer is set for nine minutes, kiyoomi begins to put the used dishes in the sink. cleaning is his specialty (other than volleyball, of course), so he always finds himself at the sink as a destresser before he goes to sleep. it’s not uncommon for atsumu to either sit at the counter with a hot cup of tea, watching kiyoomi wash the plates and utensils to shining perfection.

some nights, like tonight, atsumu assists him and they work in tandem like they do on the court: kiyoomi washes and rinses, atsumu dries. maybe it’s the fabled christmas spirit or just the joy from the day carrying over, but atsumu leans into him, humming something, and the smallest smile rests on kiyoomi’s lips.

when he hands the rolling pin over, thoroughly scrubbed, atsumu gives him a peck where his moles are, and kiyoomi’s organs turn to strawberry jelly like a lovesick teenager all over again. ( _which, of course, he will never admit. there’s not a chance in hell that he will ever admit that he fell first, and usually just pretends that he was actually romantically interested in ushijima wakatoshi whenever the topic is brought up in conversation.)_

it continues, the sound of water and fabric the only other sounds in the house. it’s cringe-worthy, disgustingly domestic and kiyoomi is certain that if he witnessed this brand of bullshit anywhere else, he’d throw up on the spot. but this is atsumu, and atsumu makes every single part of his life a little more tolerable.

kiyoomi rinses the soap out of the sink and wipes it down, and atsumu slides behind him, wrapping his hands around his waist. “i’m so romantic,” he says, breath warm in the crook of kiyoomi’s neck.

“mhm,” kiyoomi replies, the heat in his cheeks betraying his nonchalance.

“let’s watch polar express.”

“mhm.”

“and eat cookies on the couch.”

“mhm.”

“is osamu the hotter twin?”

“you’re identical,” kiyoomi sighs, squeezing excess water out of the rag.

“ah! so you can hear me!” atsumu replies, then digs his chin in a little more and whines. “that was the wrong answer!”

“whatever, go check the cookies.” 

atsumu releases him and does as he’s told. his fuzzy, striped socks slide across the hardwood floor on his quest to lay down on the couch. he remembers buying it for his first apartment, third year of university; a maroon color that caught his eye the same way the inarizaki jackets did. now, it sits proudly in their living room, a little older and rattier but mostly the same. 

_it’s still comfortable_ , kiyoomi resolves, as he splays his limbs out then squirms so that one of armrests supports his head and his neck enough so he won’t wake up with killer cramps. it’s happened on accident many times before.

kiyoomi picks up the dvd case that sits on the coffee table to his right, and he listens to atsumu’s faint humming while he looks at the polar express. it’s in pretty terrible condition: the plastic is peeling and the paper is faded underneath it. the title would close to unreadable, even if kiyoomi was fluent in english. maybe it belongs in a museum, not in the hands of two bisexual japanese men.

“should i buy a maid outfit to complete the aesthetic, kiyoomi?” atsumu holds the plate of cookies in one hand and poses.

“it would make you look extra stupid, if that’s what you’re going for,” kiyoomi quips. he rolls his eyes and pretends like he isn’t smiling.

“stupid seems to be a kink of yours,” atsumu grins, and puts the plate down. he pulls napkins from his pocket and puts two decorated cookies on one of the white tissues. kiyoomi accepts them, takes one look and bursts into laughter.

the thin, red frosting piped on the angel reads _i’m the better twin_ , and the star is decorated with normal red, green and white sprinkles with white frosting underneath. kiyoomi eats the angel in two bites. “your cookie decorating skills are shitty.”

atsumu sticks his tongue out then turns on his heel, clicking open the case of the movie. “you’re so mean to me.” kiyoomi, knowing this, does not grace him with a response.

when atsumu figures out how to turn on the japanese subtitles and the movie begins to play, he turns off all of the lights and crawls onto his boyfriend’s chest. kiyoomi discovered a long time ago that it was atsumu’s favorite position; when he’d asked why a couple months back, atsumu had gotten all flustered and pink.

kiyoomi eats his two cookies and barely follows the plot of the movie, even with the subtitles. he figures out that they’re on a train (he doesn’t understand how or why) and that it’s christmas, but other than that he has no clue what’s going on. there’s one character with glasses and an annoying voice that reminds him of that middle blocker from sendai frogs, the one that hinata used to provoke across the net every time he rotated into the front row.

atsumu is sound asleep on kiyoomi’s chest half an hour in, the blond’s arms around his neck. kiyoomi’s muscles and bones are groaning from the weight of another man on top of him and he’s definitely sinking into the couch, but he refuses to move into another position. he rests his arms around atsumu’s waist and watches him sleep.

when he’s silent and at peace like this, he’s not _miya atsumu: world class setter_ or _miya atsumu: olympic silver medalist_ ; as cliché as it is, kiyoomi thinks atsumu’s most beautiful when he’s his self-absorbed, petty and egotistical self. the way a smirk dances across his lips when he dumps the ball on set point or when he intentionally spikes into kiyoomi’s face during extra practice and then laughs about it while he’s being strangled.

kiyoomi dozes off at some point, portuguese audio playing softly and arms wrapped around atsumu’s waist. he doesn’t even notice he’d fallen asleep until he blinks and the sun is shining hot on his face. 

he blinks multiple times in an attempt to clear the bleariness from his eyes and gain his bearings. kiyoomi can’t exactly move that much, as he’s lost feeling in his arms and legs, but now his vision is as clear as it always has been and _god_ is he happy that he pulled open the curtains on the living room window the night before.

atsumu is glowing; to kiyoomi, he always is, but the direct sunlight sets the straw colored strands of his hair aflame and gold glances off on his cheek. _straw is kindling,_ kiyoomi thinks, but atsumu shows no signs of withering to ashes. he flares bright, so radiant that kiyoomi’s retinas are scratching grooves into his memory like a vinyl record. his lungs burn from the lack of air ( _for christ’s sake, he’d literally stopped breathing),_ and during the slight stutter of that first inhale he notices that atsumu is awake. it’s the smallest of shifts that alerts him at first, and then atsumu is shifting his weight into a slight variation of the position they were in before.

it’s been what...two years? three? kiyoomi likens this kind of love to a mobius strip; infinite in its simplicity. he craves being near him every second of every day, a second heartbeat that calls _atsumu, atsumu, atsumu_ and thrums in his veins. 

if he had to start his life over again, kiyoomi would do everything the exact same. he would suffer the shitty therapy and panic attacks; the bullying, the hospital visits, the four years of playing in college, where no one respected personal space. he would break his wrist in his second year of middle school and sit in bed for days, crying that he might never play volleyball again. if it meant he could meet atsumu and live like he has the past three years? kiyoomi wouldn’t hesitate.

“merry christmas, kiyoomi,” atsumu murmurs. it’s the only whisper of sound in the universe they’ve created together.

before miya atsumu, the things kiyoomi loved were finite. they came into his life, blossomed, and died soon after.

_this,_ kiyoomi thinks, atsumu’s irises glowing like newborn stars, _this is infinite._

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! slide into my dms, scream at me about hq or talk about this fic with me on twitter: @luvkiyoomi !!


End file.
